


guide me

by cicadas



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Resuscitation, Shock, this basically a view of thought after thought in quill’s head during a crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 01:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: He thinks of it like a record spinning. Can hear it in his head.





	guide me

He thinks in circles like a time bomb.

1234 1234

There’s nothing left. Carpet covering the floor dice in the drawers unwrapped presents.

1234 1234

 

The cassette was damaged on Nova

 

His fingernails were too short to scratch dirt off the broken plastic, dust in his blood.

He remembers waltzing.

1234

 

He remembers the record skipping and being told it was from dust in the needle - don’t drop it down it’ll do damage, press this it’s automatic. And the music was loud and echoed. And he stepped on his mom’s feet. And he felt something missing but said nothing.

 

1234 1234

 

The beat the dance. The steps.

 

One.

 

They pressed, and used three fingers. Two for an infant, heel of the palm for an adult.

Ribs often broke. His placement was different.

 

Two.

 

They couldn’t get his mouth around - black lips, canines, pull the tongue out, cover, push breaths in through the nose.

 

1234 “and good, and step” “you’re doing greatpeter”

 

The record skipped and he misstepped and bent his foot, toe into the carpet kicked up over the floorboards. The rhythm fell out and his hands cramped ached sweat and the fur stuck to them. Broken ribs.

 

1234 1234

 

He can’t remember any other way. Didn’t get that far in school. 10, 11. His hair was darker then and he wondered if he got that from his dad. Was bitter and glad when it lightened up in his teens. Curled around his ears. He looked into the mirror and saw his mom again.

 

He never fixed the tape. Want You Back, Jackson 5. Crowd favourite. Mom’s favourite. Closest he could get. He couldn’t remember the details.

 

He digs fingertips through gaps in ribs and wants no distance between heart and nail. Playing operation as a child is different when you’re 36. Can’t remember the pieces.

Bone milk bread. Brain. Heart.

 

1234 “you’re doing so good I’m so proud” so proud so proud

 

Three.

 

There’s no longer any give beneath him. Shoulders burn and there’s a weight too heavy on top of them (let me rest)

 

Four.

 

He feels the snap.

 

His fingernails were too short to scratch the dirt off the plastic.

Little shards in the ground, among the metal, his home.

There’s no buzz or a shock to the tweezers in his hand, giggle, drop the handle, pick it up with pincer grip. It’s different it’s different. So

(He got angry once and threw a toy and it made the exact same sound) (broken plastic)

 

It pierced the lung, sternum crushing heart and no sound coming out of an open mouth.

 

“You’re doing so good, peter, you’re doing so good”

“You did all you can”

“You learned all the steps”

“I’m so sorry”

“I’m proud of you”

 

The needle sat in the middle of the spinning record until his mother switched it off.

 

Peter sat beside his dead friend until he couldn’t feel the cold.

 

1, 2, 3, 4

was never the proper beat. He didn’t learn it in school. What would’ve happened if he had.

 

His mother held her hand out in his mind.

 

He held Rocket’s instead.

 

you did so well (so well)

"i’m so proud of you”

 

 


End file.
